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ELEANOR
There were five paramount steps to creating the perfect wife. Or so Mrs. Pencrook, her old finishing school teacher, would suggest.
Step One, everything you do, do with grace. A good wife will aim to talk, walk, and act with grace, as her person is a direct reflection of her husband.
Step Two, always have patience. A good wife never needs to rush, as she has a schedule for her daily affairs. To rush means that one is ill prepared.
Step Three, always submit to your husband’s good teachings, and never attempt to outwit him. A good wife will trust her husband above all else.
Step Four, always strive for absolute perfection. You will never achieve it, but strive for it nonetheless.
Lastly, and perhaps most cardinal, never leave the house on Hallows Eve.
They taught that rule to all young women in Autumntun. Ever since she was a girl, women to leave their residence on Hallows Eve were at risk of being stolen by the Headless Horseman. Though, Eleanor tended to dismiss such things asrumors fabricated by some of the elderly townspeople, as just another way to ensure the obedience of otherwise wayward brides.
‘Stay true to your husband else the Headless Horseman shall snatch you away,’they would oft say.
And it was the truth that women had gone missing in the past. However, Eleanor believed that the reason for women going missing in the past was not a mythical being stealing them away, rather, they had been running from the men they were wed to. It would be the perfect cover, in her mind, to disappear under the guise of being snatched away by the Headless Horseman.
After all, who would go after them?
Eleanor brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her face as she walked down the streets of Autumntun. She let the crisp air fill her lungs, mixing and wrapping with the scent of fresh pies, cinnamon, and other seasonal goods from the different bakers on the street.
The road was adorned with various colored leaves that had fallen from their branches, making it easy to see the beauty from the outside. It was easy to ignore the people—women in particular—rushing about, senselessly gathering supplies for the approaching Hallows Eve.
“Locks!” a merchant yelled from across the street. “Brand new locks for sale! Unbreakable, they are!”
Lifting her eyes from the path in front of her, Eleanor glanced at the man. His suit was a plain brown and the sign he held above his short stature advertised the different makes and models of locks his store offered.
No doubt, marking up the prices to feed off the fear of both women and their families. Ill-gotten coin if she ever heard so.
Eleanor rolled her eyes as she continued down her path to the bakery at the very end of the thoroughfare.
She passed a woman who dressed herself in what seemed to be the finest silks, arm in arm with a much taller, meaner looking man in a black suit.
“Hurry,” the man said, pulling her along by the arm, “we cannot be late for your curfew again. The mayor will have my head if you miss it.”
“Yes, dear, I understand, but we really should get a new lock for the entry. What if the,” she paused, lowering her voice to a whisper, “Headless Horseman, comes back this Hallows Eve?”
The man rolled his eyes, seeming to grow impatient. “Fine. Do make it quick.”
“Run, run, run, as fast as you can,” Eleanor whispered under her breath as the odd couple moved to walk across the street.
She herself would run away on Hallows Eve if she were married to a man like that.
The curfew was on behest of the new mayor. One week before and one week after Hallows Eve, all women were to be indoors upon sunset. One of Mayor Adam’s many promises was to stop the disappearance of the town’s women. Not that there had been any disappearances as of recent.
Really, all that meant was that women were to be kept under even harsher watch.
Opening the older wooden door to the bakery, the smell of her favorite pumpkin cake quickly enveloped Eleanor as she entered the shop. She had been coming here since she was young and nothing had changed. From the yellow walls down to the dark brown shelves that held their marked down, day-old goods, it was all the same.
The baker, Mr. Halton, looked up from the dough he was kneading. When his eyes met hers, he offered a warm smile. “Good evening, Eleanor. What will you be getting today? Did you perhaps smell the cake? It’s just about to finish cooling.”
“I wish,” she admitted, walking up to the counter. “Uncle has sent me for some rye bread. Should you have any left, I would need two loaves.”
The older, plump baker nodded his head. “Of course. And,” he paused, releasing the dough to wipe his hands on his apron, “how is your uncle these days?”
